I have no idea why I am anywhere near the backstage area at a George Strait concert. I also have no idea why my wife, who is also a fan, was not at the concert with me. I would later remember that I am supposed to be back home in time to take her to a doctor’s appointment in Huntsville, but that story comes later.
Listening to the chatter around me, it soon becomes apparent that the rhythm guitar player in George’s “Ace in the Hole Band” is under the weather. That’s all I know. Could have been a stomach virus. Could have been a cold. I don’t have those details. What I do know is that George seems calm enough. I hear him say, “We’ll just need to find somebody to fill in. Look around.” Walking past me, he stops, looks at me, and asks, “How about you? Do you play?”
I stutter, but find the words. “Just a little. Three or four chords in major keys.”
“That’s all we use,” he says. “Can you help us out?”
With no hesitation, I answer, “Sure.”
Don’t laugh. If you had the chance to play guitar at a George Strait concert, you’d be all in, even if you knew you probably were severely lacking in the requisite skills.
“Get this man a guitar and tell him what do,” George says to some guy following him around.”
Fast forward fifteen minutes. I now have an acoustic guitar, and I’m on stage with George and his band. I’ve been positioned at the back of the stage area for some reason. I guess they don’t want everyone to know that the real rhythm player is not there.
I remember that I have been told to just strum with the beat, and that everything is in the key of E, unless the bass player standing beside me tells me otherwise. I can handle that. If I just remember the E, A and B7 chords, I’ll be fine. It’s a good thing he chose this key, and that he doesn’t get too crazy in chord progressions. The truth is I can only strum three chords in about four keys, so if he had said we’re playing everything in the key of B, I’d be in big trouble.
The concert goes on uneventfully. Everyone is all business. The crowd cheers every song and every comment by George. If you’ve ever been to one of his concerts, you know he doesn’t talk much. He only sings. When he introduces the band, he points to me and says, “This is a local guy who’s helping us out tonight.” He doesn’t mention my name. There’s a good reason. He doesn’t know my name. The crowd still applauds, so I’ll take it.
Afterwards, George calls me into a dressing room, where he is seated at a small table. He motions for me to sit. I do, and he starts counting out cash. Oddly enough, the first bill was a $1,000 bill, which has been obsolete since 1934. He adds a few hundreds on top of that.
“No, no, no,” I protest. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“We pay the band,” George says simply. “Now, can you give me a ride?”
I agree, and we jump into my truck. I’m glad to give him a ride, but I’m a bit anxious. Somewhere between “Check Yes or No” and “Write This Down”, I had remembered that I was supposed to take Gail to a follow-up appointment with her doctor. I’m getting more concerned by the minute that I’m not going to be home in time. Surely, she’ll understand.
The truth is, if George Strait asks you to give him a ride to a friend’s house, are you going to tell George Strait that you don’t have time? I don’t think so, and I didn’t either. He jumps into the passenger side and gives me the address. I put it in Google Maps and we’re on our way.
It’s a pleasant drive, and George is easy to talk to. I do take the opportunity to ask him a question that has bugged me for years. Why was “Amarillo by Morning” not in the box set we bought several years ago. He assures me that he has asked and has been asked that same question a thousand times. He blames the production guys in Nashville. I believe him.
We finally arrive at the friend’s house, and George opens the door, shakes my hand, thanks me again and jumps out. I watch until the front door opens. I don’t want to leave him stranded. Don’t ask, because I don’t remember the address. And, with my day’s work almost done, I head home.
As I suspected, I’m late, and my wife has set out on her own. I call her and try to explain my lateness. She is neither upset nor believing. She also isn’t overly concerned. She trusts me, but my excuse doesn’t really hold water. To begin with, George Strait’s concerts are at night, and her appointment was in the early afternoon.
I am now totally confused as well. I feel things begin to unravel. As I try to explain the inconsistencies, I am awakened by Bob Segar belting out “Against the Wind,” the first ringtone every morning on my phone.
I rub my eyes, sit up on the side of the bed, and I’m faced with the with a jarring reality that I did not play rhythm guitar for George Strait. Since then, I have also questioned the likelihood that I ever will. To say I am disappointed would be an understatement. But look on the bright side. I have not actually neglected my wife’s appointment. So, there’s that.
Yes, it was all a dream. A strange one, but a fun one. So, George, if you’re reading this, I’m still available. It’s true that I can still only strum a few chords in major keys, and not even in all keys. But I’m hanging on to the hope that your songs are in E Major. And if they’re not, I do know how to use a capo.
Also, if you’re on the road, I can meet you somewhere. As a matter of fact, just say the word, and if I hurry, I can still make Cheyenne.